Catch and Release

AUTHOR'S NOTE

If you've read any of my other stuff you've probably come to realize some of my quirks. I'm a big fan of a little Bromance. The way I figure it man on man should have the same delicious acceptance of girl on girl. This story contains, some man on man. Not a great deal in this first section, it's more implied than anything else. My stuff is more thinking porn, if you're after a quick fix of tab A into slot B (and let's face it we all want that sometimes) it's not here, it's a story.

Now after those warnings if you're turning off, that's cool. But…(there's always a but isn't there?) why not try it. You just might like it; no one's watching they'll never even know you tried. You might find yourself a delicious new kink.

Comments appreciated. Ratings even more.

Lay some sugar on me xxx

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Fitted green satin was a bad idea. Hardly a revelation in 104 degree heat and 89% humidity—but to Grace it was a revelation of sorts. Despite the fact that she was sweating as soon as she was out of the shower Grace had not at any point prior to the party questioned her decision to wear the vintage fifties cocktail dress. It was her Christmas dress and it was a Christmas party, therefore the only choice was the full-skirted, long sleeved, heavy satin. It was as simple as that. It seemed that not even a swap in hemisphere could shake her devotion to tradition.

Grace had always liked boundaries, personal rules and goals. They had long been a comfort—a way for her to define her place in the world. Now the social rules and personal values she'd imposed upon herself were beginning to feel more like a cage. She felt trapped in the long sleeved, boned corset top. Weighted down by the mid calf wide full skirt and tulle petticoat underlay. It was the perfect Connecticut Christmas dress and a stupid choice for a humid Australian party beside the Jupiter's Casino Pool. If she'd been acting out of anything other than compulsion she wouldn't even have packed the dress. She'd have waited and found something more suitable for the climate.

Large, round, white linen covered tables surrounded the pool. Dishes from the buffet dinner had been cleared and she was one of few people still seated at the tables. She looked around at the other women in their tropical sundresses, dancing to the Carols blasting from the DJ booth beside the Pool bar.

Bing Crosby?

Did no one else realize the incongruity of sweating while listening to Bing croon about roasting chestnuts?

It was absurd. Truly absurd.

She was absurd pointing out the obvious while everyone around her was having fun.

Grace let out a sigh.

Casting an eye across the Christmas drunk crowd—high on the coming holiday—Grace could find no other person sitting and shaking their head like her. She was the only one. If it had only been a matter of being the odd one out she'd have been fine. Connecticut born, she was bred for aloof social disconnection. She had no problem with being an island. Isolation was comfortably familiar feeling; in fact it was her default emotion. She'd been raised to believe a good Christmas gathering should be as frosty as familial relationships. Stilted and confined with minimal conversation and no physical contact.

Here the music was loud and the conversation even louder. Despite the cloying heat it seemed as if touch had been state mandated. Everyone hugged her, or even worse, kissed. A discrete check of her compact mirror showed her cheek to be a lipstick smeared rainbow. She wasn't used to the contact and couldn't help the immediate recoil she instinctively made each time she was touched. The need these people had for contact was baffling. She'd only been in Australia two months and with the University for a little over three weeks. Even at her going away party from the school she'd worked at for the last three years, she hadn't received such exuberant physical affection.

"Are you as uncomfortable as you look Miss Hawthorne?"

The murmured question unnerved Grace, firstly because she thought herself better at schooling her emotions and secondly because of who asked.

Drew Maxwell.

He unnerved her. With his sharp features, steel grey hair and ice blue eyes he had the aura of a film noir detective. But it wasn't his arresting looks that made her uneasy—it was his voice.

It affected her. He affected her.

The lyrical rumbling burr elicited an unwanted physical response, as if he'd trailed his fingers down her spine. Deep and rich, it was a seductive mix of two accents—a Scottish burr softened by years of living in Australia.

"I'm fine. Thank you Mr. Maxwell." There was something about him that made her Connecticut ice rise. Even the most innocuous conversations with him had her speaking in frosty clipped tones.

He leaned over. His knuckles brushed her skin as his fingers gripped the back of her chair. She recoiled at the heat of his skin and sat up to avoid the contact. He laughed. Low and rumbling. Leaning lower, until his breath tickled her ear he said, "Yes. You are fine. Aren't you? Cool and completely contained. Do you ever just let go?"

"Let go of what?"

He laughed again—the sound vibrating her ear. "And with that logic she answers my question."

He sat beside her. Unasked, uninvited he took the chair in which Brent should've been seated. Brent, who was on the other side of the pool engaged in conversation with the head of the School of Medicine.

Engaged by her expansive chest anyway.

Glancing to her left she saw that Drew had also noticed. He'd followed her gaze and now he too was intently watching Brent. The flash of annoyance she felt was not due to Brent. His behavior didn't bother her; theirs had never been a jealous or possessive relationship. The anger that itched under her skin was because she'd been caught looking by Drew and it was obvious his interest had been piqued. The last thing she wanted to do was attract his focus. She had the feeling it would be difficult to shake.

"Let go of what?" she repeated the question in an effort to distract him. Regretting it immediately, because suddenly all that focus she'd feared was now directed at her. Intense blue eyes. White blue, like chips of ice, radiating burning heat rather than cold. A weight settled in the pit of her stomach as those eyes locked with hers.

"You're so contained Miss Hawthorne. Confined like a tight flower bud. I wonder…does the bud ever unfurl? Burst into blooming color?"

Grace felt herself flush. A physical reaction as it rose from her chest and blazed a heated trail up her neck. He leaned in and rested an elbow on the table. He reached closer and trailed a long finger across her collar bone along the rising flush. "There's some pretty color," he murmured.

She took a drink of her champagne. Flat and warm, it sat stale in her mouth, not giving her the cool release she'd hoped. The liquid swallowed like a stone, a hard ball going down her throat. The finger at her collar bone moved, tracing patterns up her neck, hooking into a curl of hair that had come loose from her chignon in the humidity. He tugged on it and to her shame she could not hold back the shudder.

"Is that your husband over there with Professor Thane?"

She shook her head and he released his finger from her hair. "That's Brent," she said, "Dr Brent Sutcliffe. He's not my husband."

"Ah, fiancé."

Grace was fairly certain Drew already knew her personal situation and was trying to make some point at her expense. He wanted a particular response and she wasn't going to give it to him. She wasn't going to squirm, deny or justify the status of her relationship.

"Your boyfriend?" The word came out on a smirk.

Boyfriend. Grace hated that word. Hated admitting it. It sounded stupid, almost juvenile for a thirty five year old woman to have a boyfriend? But what other name was there for it? For him? What else could she call Brent? Lover—how gauche. Partner—sounded like a business transaction. There was no other word

Boyfriend, fiancé or husband.

Society gave her no other choices.

At home, in Connecticut they didn't even live together. So, as much as it galled to Grace to say it Brent was her boyfriend.

"How long have you been together?"

"Eight years."

"Eight Years? Long time. You don't believe in marriage?"

She felt a flash of anger. Of course she believed in marriage. It wasn't like Santa was it? It existed. She didn't deny its place in society. She didn't hate the institution. There was even a time when she imagined herself at an altar dressed in white with a Prince Charming of her own, but that was long ago. It irritated her that Drew had asked. That she felt the need to justify herself.

"You don't believe in minding your own business?" Grace felt her heart race at her biting response. She looked away, hoping to hide the flush that had returned to her face. She didn't like confrontation.

Drew laughed. Threw his head back and laughed. Laughter softened the angular lines of his face, making him beautiful in a way that clenched her stomach. Layered on top of the rush of adrenalin that confrontation brought, the feelings his laughter raised made her feel a little light headed.

"You're a traditional girl aren't you Grace."

She was—exhibit A, the heavy satin dress—but wary of the potential ambush that could come of answering, she said nothing. Every conversation with this man seemed like some kind of honeyed trap. She waited, sitting stiff, preparing herself for whatever sting was to follow his baited line of questioning.

What he said next was unexpected. It confused her, which was why she reacted the way she did, without thought, without planning. In the moment.

"I'd lay money that you're the only woman here in stockings and garter belt."

How did he know?

"You wear them every Christmas don't you Miss Hawthorne? This one particular pair."

It didn't occur to her to deny or not to answer—to tell him to again to mind his own business. Shocked at his perception she nodded. The garter belt was Christmas green with gold trim. She wore it every Christmas. With this dress.

"Did your Dr Sutcliffe see you put them on?"

She had to think a moment. Place where they both were as she got ready. Yes. Brent had seen her, he'd been telling her about the Tropical Medicine Seminar he was to attend early next year. She nodded and said, "Yes. He saw me."

His hand trailed lightly down her arm and murmured, "Did he ask you to bend over?"

She gasped and shook her head.

"Really? I would have. I would have sat down and asked you to bend that ripe peach of an arse over, right in front of me." He brought his hands up in front of his face and held them as if cupping her bottom. "Just for the pleasure of seeing you bend."

I should ask him to stop. I should tell him to go. It's inappropriate.

The logical part of her brain protested, but Grace did nothing. Said nothing. She sat transfixed by his liquid voice and the lightly trailing finger that had now moved down under the tablecloth to make circles on her thigh.

"Told you to spread your legs and grip your ankles. Can you do that Grace? Grip your ankles?"

She nodded. Her mouth was dry, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

"With you bending over between my legs, your sweet arse right near my face I would have made you come. Stuck my fingers in your pussy until I felt the honeyed clench of your orgasm. I would have wanted to lick you clean, but I wouldn't. Do you know why?"

She shook her head. Still unable to talk.

"Because I'd have wanted your panties to be wet and sticky for the whole night. So each time you moved you'd know who wanted you."

A rush of liquid heat settled between her legs.

"So Grace Hawthorne, did Dr Sutcliffe make you come?"

She shook her head again.

"I'd like to make you come. Come so hard and fast that your muscles seize in shock. That you beg me to stop because you think you might shatter."

She was panting. So loud it echoed in her head. Grace wondered if he could hear it too. She was hot. Sweat trickled down her neck, between her breasts. He looked cool. His linen shirt crisp and white, a mocking contrast to her damp flushed skin.

"Right here, right now."

"Here?" she asked, in a feeble voice. A voice that had never before issued from the mouth of Grace Hawthorne.

"Here. Before he comes back. He's on his way back now. Do you think you can do it? Do you think you can come before he gets back to the table?"

Grace glanced up to see Brent wave. She nodded back at him, unable to move her hands that were gripping the table edge. Drew had his hand under the crisp linen tablecloth, pulling back the edge of her cocktail dress. She didn't stop him. Under the layers of petticoat his fingers moved quickly. When he reached the lace of her garter he hooked a finger underneath the elastic and flicked. The snap against her soft skin made her jump.

Still she didn't stop him.

Looking up, she found Brent. He'd had taken a detour to the bar. She watched him talk to the bartender, a chesty young girl guaranteed to keep his attention longer than the order of his scotch and soda.

Why did that please her? That she had more time with Drew?

Drew's hand moved up to snake a finger under the elastic edge of her panties. Grace shifted forward on her chair and to her surprise she opened her legs to his fingers.

"Aye. That's it. Good girl." He sounded Scottish now, the burr more pronounced. Under her bunched up skirt his fingers moved. They dipped into the embarrassing wetness that had pooled since his words and then moved up to slick against her clit. The sensation shot through her like electricity. Around their table people milled, glasses clinked and laughter sounded. Crooning Bing Crosby changed to Dean Martin.

Lost in the feeling she swayed closer to Drew. He smelled musky, unadorned by cologne, just the smell of him. "Can you do it Grace? Can you let yourself go before he comes back?"

She looked up. Brent was walking back to the table, glass in hand. He smiled at her and tilted his head slightly towards Drew. As if to ask who he was. His eyes held only slight interest, no shock or suspected impropriety. Grace risked a glance at Drew. While his hand was under her skirt, his fingers speared in her body, rocketing her to orgasm, he was looking away. His face was a mask of indifference and for some reason that heightened the sensation of his fingers—turned her on more. He brought a wine glass to his lips and spoke quietly against the rim, "Are you ready Miss Hawthorne?"

She was ready. But Brent, was so close to the table. Could she do it before he returned?

Drew started a countdown. Low enough for her alone to hear, "Ten…nine…eight… seven…six…"

At five she tipped over and fell into orgasm. Plunged into it. Her thighs seized, snapping tight around his hand. She rocked in her seat against his trapped hand until it finished. His hand was still ensnared in her wet pussy when Brent made it back to the table.

"Grace. Darling, I'm sorry to have left you for so long."

"Is...Ok…Fine," she said proud of herself that she was even able to make that incoherent sentence.

After an uncomfortable silence that under normal circumstances Grace would never have tolerated Brent cleared his throat and offered his hand to Drew and said, "I'm Dr Brent Sutcliffe."

Through the fog of her orgasm aftermath Grace realized that Brent had been waiting for her to introduce him.

Drew slipped his fingers from her pussy and slowly ran them down her stocking clad thigh and then….

He stood and offered the hand that had just made Grace come to her boyfriend to shake. Brent did, with his usual dominant exuberance.

"Pleased to meet you Brent, I'm Dr. Drew Maxwell."

Drew was a Doctor?

"Aaaah," Brent said with a wide smile, "What do you practice?"

"My guitar."

"Sorry?"

"That's what I tend to practice. I'm not so good at it, even though I've been playing it for years. That's why I've got a day job."

Brent didn't laugh, didn't even smile he just continued to stare at Drew who sighed and said, "I'm not a medical doctor Brent. I'm a doctor of philosophy. I have a Phd."

"Right. Well, good then." Brent's body language made it painfully obvious that honestly he thought it anything but good.

"In what?" Grace asked.

Drew didn't look at all bothered by Brent's reaction. He smiled and sat back down—in Brent's chair. Brent frowned, stood and shifted his feet for a while and then pulled out the chair opposite Drew. He sat, his resentment at Drew taking his chair obvious.

Grace looked back from Doctor to Doctor. They weren't just opposites at the table. They were physical polar opposites. Drew—gun metal grey hair, lean, angular and rakish. Brent—All American blond, square jawed and broad.

"My Phd?" Drew asked and Grace nodded.

"In english literature."

Grace heard Brent's derisive snort and cringed at the sound. There was no way that Drew could've missed it but he gave no outward appearance of hearing. He smiled, his eyes focused entirely on her, as if Brent did not exist.

"Do you teach?" Grace asked. Drew worked in the International Student's Department. He travelled to international trade shows and recruited students. As far as she knew anyway.

"I did, for a while. I like what I do now better."

"What use is your doctorate?" Brent asked.

"Beauty needs no use," Drew said, his eyes on Grace despite the fact he was answering Brent.

Drew stood, smiled and said, "Well, Grace, I wish your Christmas to be very merry my dear. I'll see you next year. Nice to meet you Brent."

He didn't call me Miss Hawthorne, Grace thought to herself as she watched him leave. Brent was speaking to her but she only caught the tone, none of the meaning. She was too focused on watching Drew walk away. Interrupting Brent mid sentence she said, "I'm just going to the bathroom."

When she hit the bright fluorescent lighting of bathroom Grace realized she had no memory of how she got there. Her body went on autopilot. Standing at the rows of hand basins she stared in the wall length mirror.

Her cheeks were flushed, her chignon slightly mussed, her make-up faded but other than that she looked the same as when she arrived this evening.

But she wasn't the same.

The woman who arrived in her traditional green satin Christmas dress didn't spread her legs and come on the hand of a virtual stranger.

Who was this woman in the mirror?

* * * *

Drew hadn't intended for that to happen. Of course from the moment he'd seen the cool and calm Grace Hawthorne he'd wanted to ruffle her. But he'd planned on a bit more of a subtle chase than sticking his fingers in her wet snatch at the Christmas party.

It was her eyes that did it. They made him do it.

They were grey and far more expressive than she intended them to be. She'd strictly schooled the rest of her features. Outwardly she was perfectly measured and composed, except for the banked passion in those eyes. What he saw there he wanted to release and then tame.

He wanted to tame her.

He leant up against the wall and watched her with her boyfriend.

What a dick.

Doctor Dick. That fool had no idea what he held. No appreciation. It was like handing a thick necked beer drinking footballer fine French wine. He'd drink it, but never, never appreciate the quality he held in his oafish hands.

And Grace was quality. She was passion wrapped in ice, waiting to be broken free.